


Kidlock

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanart, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Injury, Kidlock, Loosely Based on Fanfic, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes: created as part of a “6 Fanarts” collectionI loosely based this one off sgam76‘s story, "Happy Not Happy Christmas"
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	Kidlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Happy Not Happy Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099699) by [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76). 



Story excerpt --

Mycroft had to suppress his initial reaction firmly when he first saw the wilting bundle of blankets and sorrow that was his brother. The boy’s spindly limbs protruded from beneath the covering in random spots, as if someone had simply tossed the blanket over the recipient, rather than carefully tucking him in. He wasn’t asleep, though he clearly hoped to convince any onlookers that that was the case; Mycroft knew Lock’s “tells” far too well.

Mycroft stopped at the entrance to the room, and gave a cordial, chilly dismissal to Matron, who hovered behind him. “I’ll take over,” he said. “Please see that someone has his things brought to the front entrance.” The woman lingered momentarily, but ultimately acceded to the power of Mycroft’s firmly turned back.

Once he was sure she was out of earshot, Mycroft quietly closed the door and approached his brother.

“She’s gone,” he said, quite softly. Loud sounds were contraindicated following a meltdown. “I know you’re not asleep. Sit up, so I can assess the damages.”

“Piss off,” the bundle hissed. “If you’re going to show up almost 5 hours late, you might as well not come at all.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Mycroft protested hotly, before he thought about it from his brother’s point of view. Then—“But I’m sorry, nonetheless.” He leaned over and gently nudged the blanket. “Come now, sit up and let me see.”

Lock considered silently, not moving a muscle. Finally, though, he heaved a great sigh and sat up, pushing the blanket away and exposing a tear-stained face and hair matted with sweat.

Both eyes were puffed and red, a sign of Lock’s agitation and distress during his meltdown. The right, though, was partly closed and swollen, with a bluish discolouration that matched a similar line running along his hairline and cheekbones on the same side. A scuffed, abraded area of skin peeked out from under his fringe. Mycroft reached out a finger and gently pushed on the swollen area, and was rewarded with a flinch and a tiny gasp of pain from Lock.

“Did no one give you an icepack for this?” he asked, looking in the blanket and on the floor to see if it had fallen. “It might have helped with the bruising.”

“I don’t remember,” Lock said, not looking up. “There was nothing here when I woke up.”

Because, Mycroft presumed, once Lock was sedated no one thought any more about him. One more thing to add to a lengthening list.

“Can you walk?” he asked now, looking about for Lock’s jacket and shoes, finding both tossed on a chair in the corner.

“Yes,” Lock said, and wriggled his way out of the blanket. He sat momentarily, squeezing his eyes closed; the sedative, and the aftermath of a meltdown, always left him with a headache.

“I have paracetamol in the car, and a thermos of cider,” Mycroft said. “Let’s get you out, and we’ll see to your head.”


End file.
